


The Jumper Patch

by sorrel_forbes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Clothing, Gardening, John is stubborn, John's Jumpers, M/M, Magical Realism, Sherlock's Coat, Sherlock's Scarf - Freeform, Sherlock's red buttonhole, Stripes are in, Whimsical, Wonders of nature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrel_forbes/pseuds/sorrel_forbes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was wearing only a vest and pants, but John was stubbornly determined not to shiver. He sat stiffly by the fire, jaw clenched, hands wrapped around a fresh cup of tea, and glared out the window. The trouble with growing one’s own produce, he reflected, was that timing could be dicey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Jumper Patch

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet was very passionately beta-read by dulcemia, who prevented me from indiscriminately tugging at loose threads and thereby unravelling the whole project. Many thanks are due to her, and any remaining awkwardness is all my own.

He was wearing only a vest and pants, but John was stubbornly determined not to shiver. He sat stiffly by the fire, jaw clenched, hands wrapped around a fresh cup of tea, and glared out the window.

The trouble with growing one’s own produce, he reflected, was that timing could be dicey. On the positive side, the quality was always far better than shop-bought. That’s why he’d insisted, after all. And since it had been him doing all the insistent convincing, he was determined not to make a fuss while he waited. Frostbite was actually a vanishingly unlikely outcome, no matter how miserable he might feel.

Sherlock, the bastard, was swanning around the flat in nothing but a bed sheet, looking for all the world as though nothing could be more comfortable. John just gritted his teeth, and willed the plants to grow.

Stripes were in this year, it seemed: three stripy hybrids from the cross-pollination of last year’s crop were filling out in the jumper patch, and John fancied he could also see a faint striping motif beginning to develop on a blue scarf that had twined its way up the trellis to bask in washed-out sunlight. On the western border, his Fair Isle Christmas jumper was coming along nicely; it'd probably be ready to harvest well before December. And that was fine, really; actually fine.

His favourite strain of Aran cable-knit was a different story. It took pride of place to catch the morning sun, had been mulched with tea leaves and interesting newsprint; had even been played "secret" midnight lullabies. (To be fair, John wasn’t sure if Sherlock really did think he hadn’t noticed, or whether he just didn’t care to admit it out loud). The jumper should have been ready weeks ago according to all the planting guides, and though John _could_ have picked it, he knew he’d be regretting its lack of inches all winter if he did. So really, there was nothing for it but to wait.

Frustrated, he closed his eyes, and willed the plants to grow.

It felt like only moments later that Sherlock’s voice was rousing him to wakefulness, but a glance out the window spoke to the passing of a whole day. The sun was low on the horizon, and leaf edges glowed golden. Taking a look at the gleaming cast of his cable knit, John realised that his waiting was over at last.

“Come here, John—  
Look.”

Sherlock beckoned, holding out his sheet invitingly, and John went over to join him at the window. The fire had long since burned down to smouldering, but when Sherlock wrapped his sheet around the both of them together, John found that he was warm enough.

Outside, a flash of colour caught his eye, and he heard Sherlock, felt Sherlock, breathe in deeply. The Belstaff, staked proudly above the rest of the garden, had let loose a thin red filament that was whipping back and forth in the fading light.

Sherlock’s arms tightened around him as they watched, and the wonder was clear in his exclamation.

“The coat, John; it’s buttonholing!”


End file.
